The Ones Midas Touched
by AKA
Summary: Have you ever wondered what the inside of a serial killer's mind looks like? I always did back in the academy. Unfortunately, it's a sight that will never leave your mind once you truly take it in. Sometimes, I wish I never saw it at all.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ones Midas Touched**

**Prologue**

In part, Nature made Jonathan Fletcher into the monster he is today.

Our environment has a hand in our development, and we are all the sum of our experiences; all of our memories, emotions, even pieces of our personality are dependant on our environment and, by extension, Nature. We all like to think that we've conquered Nature, safe in our homes that protect us from the weather and wild beasts.

We're wrong. All we've done is deny it, delay it. And Nature denied is Nature enraged. This is true on many different levels.

Jonathan Fletcher has denied his true nature for years, and during all of this time, Nature has rattled against its cage. One day, it burst free.

Three people have been killed because of him.

Looking back, I realize now that it was, ultimately, his case that changed everything between Sasha and I.

Have you ever wondered what the inside of a serial killer's mind looks like? I always did back in the academy. Unfortunately, it's a sight that will never leave your mind once you truly take it in. Sometimes, I wish I never saw it at all.

I'm not making sense. Sasha would throw a fit if he heard me right now. Here, let me start over.

My name is Milla Vodello, and this is a personal account of the events leading up to the night of October 31st, 2001.


	2. Lauren's Lullaby

**The Ones Midas Touched**

**Lauren's Lullaby**

I think Truman gave us his case just to get us out of the office. It was a rookie level assignment, really, but after our last case, we were drained. It had struck a nerve in just about all of the agents, and no one envied our assignment. A teacher had abused and driven one of his students, a young girl who happened to be a telepath, to suicide. It was a touchy issue for everyone involved and even the media seemed reluctant to print the story at first. Of course, what tiny shred of courtesy and respect for the dead they had was quickly pushed to the side when they realized that they'd struck gold as far as news stories go. I think Sasha still has a reporter dogging him about the case.

It had hit me pretty hard. Cases with children always affect those in law enforcement a certain way, and I won't deny that this one caused old memories to resurface. Memories best left forgotten. They emerged with a vengeance when we discovered the little girl's diary three months after she killed herself. By then it was too late. Politics had gotten in the way of the case--a teacher murdering a student was one thing, but most people doubted that a teacher would convince a child--a _psychic_ child, no less--to kill themselves.

I only read through it once. Those words still haunt me. I simply couldn't get them out of my head. Sasha seemed concerned, in his own way, and told me that it wasn't healthy to dwell on it. (Ironic. Sasha telling _me_ I was doing something unhealthy.) But I couldn't help it. If we had only found that diary sooner, we would have had time to mount a stronger case and put that monster behind bars.

_February 24, 2001_

_I know they're there. I can hear them at night just before I go to sleep, and there's so many of them. They don't talk loudly or scream or shout, really. There's just this constant buzz of conversation, like you're in the middle of a busy street or something, catching bits and pieces of conversations between a bunch of people. No matter what I do during those brief moments, I can't shut out their voices. Sometimes, it gets so bad that I go without sleep for a few days, so when I finally do go to bed, I'll be too exhausted to hear them. That's pretty rare, though, and I'm not really scared by it._

_I get scared when one of them screams out in anger. The nightmares always come whenever that happens._

_March 1, 2001_

_Mr. Brooks looked at me oddly today. I don't know how to describe it. I remember once my brother and I were walking down the street and we saw this starving dog foaming at the mouth, mad with disease. That's what Mr. Brooks looked like. I told my brother and he said that the dog was probably the smarter of the two. I laughed at that; Mr. Brooks is too mean to be stupid._

_The voices said bad things about him. They said he hurts little girls._

It was her final entry, however, that chilled me to the bones. The clairvoyants refuse to even touch the paper it was written on. The last one who tried became physically ill and had to be taken to the infirmary.

_March 26, 2001_

_It was a simple question. Just something I had to ask to get them to shut up. He told me to stay after class, and I did. I figured he'd answer my question then. Why did he hit me? I didn't do anything to him! My ears won't stop ringing._

_I can't go to sleep. There's too much noise._

_April 10, 2001_

_I'm sorry, Mr. Brooks. I didn't mean to tell them. That detective was so nice...and the dark haired lady, she reminded me of mommy. The voices made me do it...they wouldn't be quiet! They said I could trust them. I didn't know they'd take you away. You were right, Mr. Brooks. I'm too stupid to know when to keep my mouth shut._

_But you can't talk without a tongue._

_The voices are strangely silent tonight. Maybe they've lost their tongues, too._

By the time we found this, Ronald Brooks had been cleared of all charges and gone into hiding, possibly even fleeing the country. Some of the other agents speculate he was aided by a radical anti-psychic organization, the Agency Against Psychic Entities, better known as the AAPE (the phrase "Damn, dirty apes!" is almost always said in conjunction with the name, thanks to Morceau's twisted sense of humor). Others say he was 'taken care of'' by some psychics from the underground.

Either way it didn't matter. We failed to bring him to justice; we failed little Lauren by letting her killer get away.


	3. Back to Basics

**Back to Basics**

It was only a few days after Lauren's funeral and life had, for the most part, gone back to normal. But the aftermath of Lauren's case stayed with us. It even affected our moods towards each other, as if we blamed one another for our failure. And maybe we did on some level. I wasn't nearly as tolerant of Sasha's reserved nature as I was before, and Sasha seemed to smoke twice as much around me than was usual for him. (A habit he knows I abhor).

During those first few days after the case was put to rest, all I remember thinking is 'if only.' If only I hadn't pushed Sasha to leave the lab. If only I'd pushed him sooner. If only...

My nightmares, already a regular nuisance, became worse. At night I dreamt of her, writing in her diary, confused and terrified of what she was capable of doing and knowing no one was there to comfort her. I dreamt of her crying, trying to shut those horrible voices out. I dreamt of her confiding in a teacher she thought she could trust with her darkest secrets.

She died alone and scared; murdered by someone who preyed on the weakness of children. And I let him get away. I didn't get much sleep, and, on the day Truman assigned us Jonathan's case, I remember I hadn't slept at all.

I was lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling fan, exhausted, but unable to sleep. My cat, a calico named Fang, sat nearby and regarded me with that bored and somewhat annoyed look that only cats are capable of giving. I absent mindedly scratched underneath his chin and he purred affectionately. Fang was a stray Sasha and I found on the street near headquarters a few months ago. He was starved and shivering and I just couldn't turn him away. His name is a bastardized form of a German word; _rattenfanger_. According to Sasha, it means mouse-catcher. I tried to pronounce it, but after hopelessly butchering the word a few dozen times, I finally just settled on Fang. The cat responded to that better anyway. (Probably because it didn't sound like I was having a minor stroke whenever I called him for dinner.)

_Mine_. He thought at me, leaning into my palm with a soft purr. One of the few benefits of being psychic is the ability to communicate with animals. I chuckled and glanced at my alarm clock. It was six o'clock. If I left now I'd make it to headquarters early…which would raise all sorts of questions. But I couldn't sleep, and I had the feeling that if I _did_ manage to fall asleep, I'd either wake up late for work or the nightmares would return. Given my current round of luck, both were equally likely to happen. I might as well get up now. After a shower and quick breakfast, I got dressed (not nearly as flashy as I would like, but dress codes were in effect at headquarters) and left my house.

The drive to work wasn't too bad at this time of morning and I wondered if I shouldn't get up this early every day to beat the morning rush. I wouldn't, of course, since I enjoyed sleeping, but the thought entertained me nonetheless. I wondered what Sasha would make of it if I suddenly showed up on time to work every morning.

I inwardly groaned at the sight of the newscasters and reporters standing outside of the fence that surrounded the Psychonauts headquarters. I usually don't mind news reporters, but they had a tendency to be downright vicious after cases like these. And some of them…well, some of them just sound like shrieking banshees. Banshees or cawing crows, picking away at the aftermath of a tragic death. Most news companies didn't even care for stories anymore—they cared for shock value, ratings, and scandal. Vultures, the lot of them. I had a feeling a prime example was going to show itself.

I wasn't disappointed. The moment they saw my car, all three of them swarmed around me and called through my rolled up window. Shrieking Banshee, Cawing Crow, and Grinning Vulture. I pushed my way past them, heading towards the gate and waiting for the guard to give me clearance and open the gate. The process usually took five seconds if you were lucky. I only had to wait for five seconds.

Five seconds is plenty of time to a determined group of reporters.

Shrieking Banshee from Channel 42 shouted the first question. "Agent Vodello, there are rumors that the Agency Against Psychic Entities plans to sue you and Agent Nein on behalf of Mr. Brooks for slander—"

Shrieking Banshee was shoved aside by Cawing Crow who wielded a microphone bearing the number 24. "Agent Vodello, Lauren's family wants to know why you didn't attend the funeral. Was it guilt that kept you away or—"

And the worst of them all, Grinning Vulture of Channel 66, shouted at me while his cameraman decided to get an extreme close-up of my face. "Agent Vodello, is this a sign that all is not well between you and Agent Nein? Are the rumors that the two of you are splitting up true?"

Thankfully, the gate buzzed and allowed me entry before I did something drastic. Like shove their microphones into areas where the sun doesn't shine. I sped the through the gate, my blood pressure dangerously high, and nearly ran over another agent while parking. From there I walked inside headquarters, which, for all intents and purposes, looked like every other office building in the world. There were few decorations, most of which were portraits of famed Psychonauts and a memorial to those who've died or gone insane while in service, and only those would be found on the first floor near the press room. There weren't many people here this early but I did my best to be cheery despite having no sleep and fending off vicious reporters. Not that it did much good; everyone seemed to sense my mood and a few of the office gossips had even begun to whisper the words 'burn out' behind my back, as if the job was finally wearing me down emotionally. Maybe it was. I'm not Sasha; I can't seal my emotions off.

My office is on one of the top floors, across the building from Sasha's. Unlike the rest of the building, I actually put some effort into decorating my office so it didn't look like the inside of a failed asylum. A window showed the overcast sky behind my desk as I sat down, secure in the knowledge that at least five separate security stations and dozens of guards stood between me and the news reporters outside. They'd still be there when I left, of course, but that was several hours away and maybe a horrible accident on the highway would draw their attention away from me long enough to make a quick escape.

A normal day for most Psychonauts involved paperwork and a great deal of it. On average, government jobs are ninety percent boredom and ten percent sheer terror. Sasha and I have a fifty-fifty shot on any given day.

If it's the summer, the odds are twenty five to seventy five. (Sasha's done the math; sometimes, that man's intellect scares me.)

I'm usually on time with my reports (shocking, I know), but these days I've been getting a little lax. It didn't help that half of the paperwork stacked up on my desk involved Lauren's case which invariably led to memories I wasn't too keen on revisiting. I started in on some of the paperwork, but put most of it off. Around lunch time Agent Lenini, a recent transfer from the Italian branch of the Psychonauts poked his head in and frowned at me.

"Milla, you are looking terrible." He said. His words were thick with an Italian accent which, when one took in his appearance, made for a very attractive combination. He probably could have made a living as a model if he wanted to. He was tall and well built with a darker complexion than most. His brown eyes are somewhat hidden by strands of dark, well groomed hair. He kept trying to ask me out when he first transferred in, and I had to refuse due to the case. Now that it was over…well, maybe.

I smiled and waved him in, happy to have a distraction from my work. He sauntered inside and took a seat in one of the chairs facing my desk.

"What has such a beautiful woman so sad, _caro?"_ He said, propping his elbows up on the edge of my desk. He had a boyish face similar to Sasha's, only it wasn't as…well, refined, I guess would be the best way to put it. Sasha carried himself with a quiet dignity that you had to respect. Lenini…he was sweet, but he didn't have the sophistication Sasha did.

"Just the aftermath of my last case, Marco." I said, shoving my paperwork over to one side, sending a pen flying off into the corner. I'll find it later. Maybe. Lenini winced.

"Ah, _si,_ I heard of that. Terrible." He gave me a sympathetic smile and patted my hand. And then he left it there. Oh, boy. I gave him a slight smile and was about to pull my hand free when Sasha walked in, flipping through various memos and reports. As a senior agent, he often ended up helping the newer recruits format their reports just right for when the time came to go to court. Lauren's case had taken up all of his free time, and the paperwork had built up over the months. He didn't even bother looking up from his paperwork. (Which was probably for the best. God only knows what he would've thought if he saw me holding hands with a notorious flirt like Lenini.)

"Milla, Truman wants to speak to us in his office." I wormed my hand away from Lenini while he was distracted and got up from my desk, walking into the hallway with Sasha.

Lenini called out after us. "_Ciao_, Milla! I will be here for your return, yes?"

"Of course, darling! You're welcome to my coffee." I called back, threading my arm through Sasha's. He continued to read his file.

"He can speak the language perfectly, you know." Sasha said to me as soon as we were out of earshot of him. He pulled away from me, just as I thought he would. "He just puts on an act because he believes it will make him seem more attractive to you."

I gave him an amused look. I really shouldn't do this, but…Well, the temptation was just too much. You had to have a _little_ fun, after all, and teasing him was just too entertaining sometimes. "Darling, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

He was strangely quiet the rest of the way to Truman's office, ignoring the insinuation. If I wasn't so sure he had no interest in me whatsoever, I would gladly take him over Lenini. He just never took that final step where it was comfortable for me to ask him.

When we finally reached Truman's office, he wasn't there. This wasn't unusual. Half the time Truman called for someone, he was called somewhere else before they arrived. We let ourselves inside and began to wait.

Fifteen minutes later I was levitating up near the ceiling, trying to read the titles of the books Truman kept on the topmost shelf of his bookcase while Sasha and Lili spoke. She had wandered in earlier and was talking to Sasha about whales. She'd just finished reading a book, and wondered if humans could be eaten by them. Sasha said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because, even though it was a very large mammal, its throat was very small. Lili matter-of-factly stated that Pinocchio was swallowed by a whale. Irritated, Sasha reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible. I was about to step in and remind him that she was six when she spoke up.

"When I get to heaven, I'll ask Pinocchio." Lili said, deciding to put the whole matter behind them. Sasha had to have the last word, however. I don't know what it is with him.

"What if he went to hell?" Truman stepped in at this moment and quirked a brow at the two, a strange half-amused smirk on his lips. Watching Sasha around children was always a bit amusing, in a "oh-dear-God-what-is-he-going-to-do-them-_now?_" way.

Lili's answer was immediate. "Then you ask him." Truman and I began to laugh while Sasha stared at her in astonishment. It wasn't often you see a brilliant scientist knocked down a peg or two by six year old. Lili brightened when her father appeared and ran towards him, hugging his leg tightly. He chuckled and ruffled her hair before shooing her out of the office.

Finally, Truman shooed his daughter away and got down to business, walking over to Sasha and handing him the manila folder. It was surprisingly thin. Usually our cases almost qualified for novel length and were kept in thick binders. "Your next case."

Sasha paged through it, and then gave Truman an incredulous look. "Sir, you can't be serious. This is best suited for a junior agent. Surely, there are other cases more..." He gestured with his hand.

"More suited to your level?" Truman finished, sitting down at his desk with a soft sigh. "Look, you two need a break. That last case was hell for everyone, and most of us didn't have to deal with the press the way you two do. Since I can't give out vacation time due to certain political...ah, issues..." The recent attitudes towards psychics had taken a downward turn since Lauren's case, and the government was cutting vacation time on all agents—they claimed it was for our protection, but the truth of the matter was that they didn't want 'their' psychics to be given too much freedom. That could lead to dangerous ideas, such as seeking different careers (something the government sabotaged mercilessly for those psychics who refused to join the Psychonauts). And people wonder why psychics are often hostile towards others. "The best I can do is this. You'll be acting as consultants for the Portland police department. They just want some insight on a case they don't have any leads on."

This was truly a low level assignment. Usually cases like these were saved for those who just came out of the academy, not seasoned veterans. If anyone else had given us this case, it would've been an insult.

Sasha didn't seem at all happy with the situation. He was never one to be coddled, and even though Truman meant for the best, I could tell Sasha was annoyed. He hid his annoyance, however; Truman was his superior and, more importantly, a good friend. "Of course, sir."

"Try and relax, you two. This case should be a cakewalk for you." He smiled at us and then nodded goodbye. When we left his office, Lili skipped up to me. Sasha had his nose buried in the case file, pulling every piece of information out of the various reports and storing them to his memory. I envy his talent for that. I often have to refer to the case reports five or six times to make sure I get all the details down. He only needs to see it once.

"Hiya, Milla! Are you and Sasha going somewhere?" She asked, looking cute enough to hug. I couldn't keep a wide grin from forming. Sasha, still sore from being told to go to hell by a six year old girl, slipped off to his office, muttering something about seeing me after work.

"Hello, darling! And, yes, we are. Would you like us to bring you back something?" I probably shouldn't spoil her like this; heck, she isn't even my kid. But there's nothing wrong with buying a gift for her, is there? She probably just wanted another teddy bear or something. Truman couldn't, in good conscience, object to that.

She seemed to think for a few moments, and then her eyes lit up. "I wanna puppy!"

I laughed and patted her head, giving her an apologetic smile. "You'll have to ask your father for that one, sweetie."

"I did. He said no. That's why I'm asking you." She looked at me hopefully, carefully adjusting her face to look as innocent as possible. I can already tell Truman's going to have his hands full with this one when she becomes a teenager.

"Wouldn't you rather have another dolly? A friend for Cynthia?" She adored that doll when I brought it to her from Italy. Hopefully that tactic still worked. Please be young enough to be distracted by toys. Please be—

"Dolls are for little kids." She said, sticking her tongue out.

Honestly, children today. "Well, maybe if you ask your father some more…" I trailed off. She just looked so _disappointed_. I sighed and hugged her. "I'm sure he'll let you have one, darling. Eventually." If she pouted at him long enough, he certainly would. Truman did his best to avoid spoiling his daughter, but a parent can only deny a child's want for so long.

She hugged me back and gave me an incredulous look, but shrugged and then wandered off to go ask several other agents if they would buy her a puppy. Most pretended to not hear her or, in Morry's case, looked around helplessly for some sort of back up. I took the opportunity to stop by a friend's office.

"Alice?" I poked my head inside and she looked up, half distracted by paperwork. Alice Blackwood had always been rather shy--an oddity in these offices--but one of the strongest telekinetics in the country. Supposedly she came from a long line of psychics, though that was only office rumor. Alice didn't talk about her family, and she would pointedly ignore any questions about them if someone asked. We were quite close friends, but she didn't mention them even to me. Some people just have things they want to keep private, I guess.

"Milla?" She paused and pushed her glasses back up her nose, blinking at me. "What can I do for you?" I'd always thought Alice would have been a librarian if she hadn't joined the agency. Something about her mannerisms, maybe, and her quiet smile.

"Can I ask you a favor? Truman's just given us a new field assignment and I need someone to look after Fang for a few days--just until we get back." She'd done so several times previously, and Fang actually liked her. He said she treated him as if he were human which was something cats tended to appreciate.

She gave her trademark quiet smile and nodded. "I'd be happy to, Milla. When should I come by?"

I thought for a moment. "Can you come by tomorrow morning? I have to pack tonight."

"Of course." She smiled again and went back to her paperwork. Watching her, you wouldn't suspect the woman was capable of lifting a car up and throwing it across three city blocks. It seems the quietest ones are often the most powerful. I decided to leave her be and go try to finish my own paperwork.

By the end of the day I was ready to set the entire desk on fire and dance around it while cackling madly. My God, writing reports is boring. How on earth does Sasha find this fulfilling?

"I have to go pack my things and say goodbye to Fang." I said, fumbling with my keys. I have no idea what half of these keys go to or where they even came from.

"Rattenfanger." Sasha corrected me, waiting patiently beside my door. The two of us usually walked to our cars together.

"Fang." I said, rolling my eyes. My keys managed to tangle themselves again and I shook them out before finally fitting the correct key into the door and locking it. And then it became stuck. Figures.

"Rattenfanger." He repeated quirking a brow at me. I could've sworn he had a half smile on his face. It was hard to tell with Sasha, though.

"Fang." See, the problem is that we're both very strong willed people and any argument between us is likely to last for hours at least. This particular argument has gone off and on for the past four months. Most other people would find this sort of thing annoying or frustrating; I personally enjoyed our little verbal spars.

"Rattenfanger." He said again when I managed to yank my key out of the door and drop them back into my purse.

"Fang."

"Get out of my building." Truman demanded, shooing us out of the hallway and towards the exit. It was probably for the best that he did. We may have spent another half hour arguing over Fang's name.

Sasha walked with me to my car and handed me a copy of the case file as well as a plane ticket. "I'll see you tomorrow, Milla." And then, as an afterthought. "Try to get some sleep tonight."

I blinked. Was he concerned about me? "Of course, darling. I'll see you at the airport." He made some noise that I assumed to be an acknowledgement and walked towards his own car. I stared after him thoughtfully before glancing at the time printed on the plane ticket.

3AM. No wonder he told me to get some sleep—our plane left in less than twelve hours. For some reason, I couldn't help but think there was another reason he told me to rest. I spent the rest of the night reflecting on it, getting only a few hours of sleep after packing my bags for the trip.

Ironically, it would be the most sleep I would have for the entirety of the case.


End file.
